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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711893">Trove</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, aragorn is all of us, faramir is a powerbottom, no plot just vibes, schmaltz city</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:08:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711893</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Even a mention of Ithilien conjures the sparkling pools and secret places you’ve managed to show me, or those as yet only promised.”</p><p>Aragorn’s got it so bad for his Steward he can’t even think straight ;~)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Trove</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Tolkien’s legendarium of course with characters based on the PJ movies, I just elaborated on my two faves sucking and fucking.</p><p>***shoutout to Tiofrean and December for being so prolific in this pairing and making me fall in love with it to begin with!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">There is a rustling of cloaks, the creaking and scraping of heavy chairs across stone floors, as yet another tedious meeting is adjourned much later than it should have been. Storm clouds convene quickly outside, and complaints about the weather mingle with the the dissatisfied grumblings bound to issue forth from any group of self-important men gathered to discuss the minutiae of taxes and code amendments. The atmospheric pressure of the growing storm has only added to the assembly’s tension, and my own restlessness. My thoughts can only seem to focus, unsteadily, on the absent slender figure of Gondor’s steward.</p><p class="p2">I’ve only seen you once today, dear Faramir, silhouetted against the soft morning sun, an especially fiery glow pulled from the subtler gold of of your hair as you set off through the city. You planned to meet with some of our elderly and house-bound citizens, to solicit their opinions without a challenging visit to the highest levels of Gondor. Though unsurprised, I am nevertheless touched by your thoughtfulness in such matters. You suggested going without me, so our people would speak more freely in the presence of their familiar steward rather than in awe of their long-lost king. And to think that I was supposed to have replaced the Stewardship nearly a year ago! Since calling you back from the shadows of your harrowing role in the war, I have often dreamed of relinquishing the throne to you and disappearing back into my former life as a captain or a ranger, and it brings me both pain and pride to know that your love of Gondor leads you to believe in me more than in yourself.</p><p class="p2">I at least convinced you to be crowned Prince of Ithilien, a secretly romantic gesture I disguised as a political one, and am lucky that you also recognize the mostly ceremonial role of such a title and spend most of your time in the city where I need you, instead of the forests and mountains where I want to be with you. I feel fortunate as well that I am not prone to blushing, for even a mention of Ithilien during the meeting conjures up vivid images of the sparkling pools and secret places you’ve managed to show me, or those as yet only promised. Which of course means even more detailed visions of what I would like to do with you in such secluded places as a rock-hewn ranger’s shelter, hidden by a waterfall and well stocked with blankets, candles, and ointments. Or pools of clear water deep enough to dive into, which must surely mean enough room for two men to bathe in? The iconoclastic image of us, royalty more comfortable as rangers, unlooked-for lovers neck-deep in the Forbidden Pool, stripped of our clothes and responsibilities and submitting to the cold will of the pure waters, before clambering out and seeking warmth in each other on the sun-soaked overhanging rocks…it was all too much for me during the dry, stuffy meeting and only worsened should the words “Prince” or “Steward” be invoked, let alone your familiar name.</p><p class="p2">The sound of heavy rain pulls me from my devolving thoughts, and I’m tempted to stand uncovered on the ramparts to approximate the wild, almost elemental feeling I took for granted before my life here, and that you also inspire in me. But what I really need to do is await your return, so I head towards our chambers, mostly praying you haven’t been caught in the storm, but part of me selfishly hopes that you arrive with wet clothes plastered to your body, so that I may slowly peel them off of you and proceed to warm you back up in every way I can think of. </p><p class="p2">I’m thoroughly distracted again, so much that when I enter the royal bedchamber I am taken aback to see what in reality I see every night- you poring over a book by the welcoming light of a candle, ink pen in one hand, chin in the other, murmuring to yourself in a tone I find so charming, I hate to interrupt it with my arrival.</p><p class="p2">“Look whose turn it was to work late into the evening,” you say, raising your head with a smile. I sink into a low chair, stretching my legs out, groaning at your comment and in relief at finding you here.</p><p class="p2">“My turn? Pardon me, my prince, but who has brought yet another dusty book and pile of papers into our bedchamber?” You laugh and make your way over to me, hugging your robes around you, appearing to have recently got out of the bath.</p><p class="p2">“Alright. I suppose I can divide my attention equally between my king and <em>A History of Gondorian Trade Routes in Relation to the Anduin.” </em>I am delighted when you settle on my lap, straddling my hips, the mixture of aggressive and affectionate so perfect that I don’t know how to respond in words. “Don’t worry,” you tease, lips brushing my ear, “Next time I’ll bring back some equally dusty collection of Elvish ballads for my romantic old fool.”</p><p class="p2">You’re right, I am more sentimental in the language of my youth. The first time you found me singing an old Elvish traveling song to myself, I couldn’t understand why you seemed so embarrassed or expected me to feel the same. That is, until I remembered the cheerless, distrustful rule of your father compared to my upbringing in Rivendell.</p><p class="p2">“Please do, <em>melleth nin,” </em>I nearly whisper, twisting my fingers into your damp hair, “So that I can recite Sindarin verse to make you blush so becomingly.” And at that you do, as you always do when my voice lowers and bestows such an endearment. You lean to bury your face in my neck, but I lift your chin firmly, hear your flustered sigh catch in your throat and feel your pulse quicken at this small show of dominance. Your eyes grow wide and dark, you smell refreshingly of evergreen on this humid evening, and your lips are finally, finally on mine. Your hands work into the tense muscles of my shoulders, a touch that soothes and burns. I am still cradling your jaw, unable to pretend I have the upper hand as your tongue slips into my mouth, and my other hand moves down your spine, pressing you into me as our hips begin to grind together. I don’t want to move from under you, I know there are too many clothes between us, but for now I only manage to loosen your robe from your shoulders and gently bite each one and along your collarbone, where I know the marks won’t be seen by anyone else.</p><p class="p2">You pull away, but after so many nights together I know it is to stretch these moments out for as long as we can. Hazily, I register your weight shifting, then leaving, as you rise and appear undecided as to where you want me to follow you. There is the bed, of course, but the hearth looks inviting too, heaped as it is with rugs and furs, and then there is the bathing chamber, steaming with residual warmth and the woodsy scent of your soap. My head spins, yet I have half a mind to make up yours for you- well, a compromise, as it involves stopping at each of these places, perhaps returning to this chair if we aren’t yet exhausted…</p><p class="p2">I hold back, however, for I know you love to see me in control, mentally if not actually restrained. It’s so unlike the impulsive way I fight, or the way I’ve come to rule, with you by my side. You know how difficult it can be for me to stay my tongue, my pace, even my hand while at court, and how much I rely on your even temper and vast knowledge to prove myself King in practice as well as birth. And though I never doubt your ability to handle the court and your king, I can never wait long to spirit you away to our chambers and relieve you of your formality and obligations, and of the layers of stiff clothing between us. For this is how I find <em>you </em>most compelling- disheveled, breathless, uninhibited, when your already unruly hair tangles against the rough linen we prefer to silk, my fingers traveling through such coppery wilds for as long as I can keep them off the rest of your body. When the hair at both of our temples curls in the humidity of our sweating, panting, smoldering embrace.</p><p class="p2">I breathe your scent in greedily, thinking of our silly, sentimental ritual when parting- I cut a lock of your abundant hair and wear it in a pouch about my neck, beneath my armor and against my skin. It is usually you who stays in the citadel and has no need of such a token, and I know that the physicality of the gesture would weigh more heavily on you. Years of hiding the masculine shape of your desires from the condemnations of your father and the oldest, sternest council members have made you wary and formal in public, and it took some convincing that my love for you would not be confined to shadows, whispered rumors and locked doors. There is no match for the pride I feel when you enter a crowded hall or somber meeting with me, hand briefly clasped in mine, head held high, though you sometimes tremble, which makes me love you all the more for your bravery and tenderness. I try not to forget how much easier this is for me— raised among ageless immortal beings, betrothed to one even, for <em>dozens </em>of years while traveling unknown through many lands— than it is for you, born into an austere court, in the shadow of your loving brother, under the spiteful eye of your father. Returning to this city as its unlikely king, after a war won by even less likely heroes— it was nothing for me to be finally devastated by the softly wild looks and rapturous devotion of my steward.</p><p class="p2">As you recovered from your grave wounds, I also fell in love with your sharp mind and selfless manner, but that initial contrast still enchants me. Your sorrow-tinged face that so easily reveals a smile when we are alone or among close friends. Your lean body, often too lean, crisscrossed with battle scars but perfect in my eyes, and deceptively strong, whether in the handling of weapons- or in your handling of me, on those rare, hallowed occasions when you pin me to the bed or against the wall. It’s an especially lovely facet of you, my most precious jewel (the cruel joke embedded in your beautiful name), this shimmering lightness, the glint in your eye when you have the confidence to ask, or, better still, <em>show </em>me what you want. In public, it might be a glance at me from across a crowded banquet hall, a quick bite of your lip and a nod towards a secluded alcove where we can grasp at each other before anyone notices we’ve gone, subject to a hunger no feast can quell. In private it’s the way you stroke yourself, agonizingly just out of my reach, feigning indifference to my lustful suffering. You force the self control you so love to see in me — ironic, I know, but absolutely intoxicating — and when you finally acknowledge my own arousal, straining and weeping for you, I have no choice but to fall upon my knees and beg my prince for both of our release.</p><p class="p2">Once at your feet I attempt to reroute all the energy in my desperate body to making you feel the intensity I feel. My fingers burn as they skim the backs of your slender thighs before I grip them to steady us both when I lean in to taste your cock. My own flesh jolts when my tongue drags across the swollen tip, lapping up salty pearls of precum and dipping just below the head to tease your exquisitely sensitive skin. By now I know the shortcuts, the maneuvers to employ which would have you surrender quickly to the pleasure I can give you. I would have you ram your cock with warlike precision into the back of my throat until the spoils of your seed run down it. The thought makes my own desire untenable, my hands unsteady, and I reach down to grip my own cock as firmly as I can without lessening my mouth’s hold on you. My thrusts are only stayed by the halting of your hips, and I look up in concern, only to be granted a knowing smile.</p><p class="p2">“Don’t you dare.”</p><p class="p2">I gulp. I pause. I wouldn’t. I return my hand to its rightful place about your thigh.</p><p class="p2">“I want you to save yourself for me, Aragorn.”</p><p class="p2">And now I know that the landscape has changed, that we have time, that despite the tactics of my tongue you are holding out for higher stakes, our private struggle to see who will first succumb and spill himself across our bodies and blankets or in warm darkness.</p><p class="p2">Breathing heavily, stumbling, we make our way to the vast, blessedly solid bed. I lay you down among the bedclothes, my treasure to be admired, the breathtaking terrain I hate to stop traversing for even a second. I kneel between your legs and reach for the outcropping of your hipbones.</p><p class="p2">“Keep your eyes open,” I groan, “Do not look away from your king,” I cannot help adding. I revel in the way that my command, though given softly under ragged breath, makes your cock stiffen back to its former glory, makes your legs spread as your body relaxes into a shivering sigh. I would do anything before looking away from you. Ireturn to my task of finding all the ways my tongue can move along your length, licking hungrily from base to tip and back, circling the head, cupping you tenderly from below, a few dozen kisses before my hands take over and my lips bring their campaign ever lower. I swear I could come just at the sight of your tight, glistening opening, dripping with my own saliva, and soon with the fragrant oil I am slicking onto my hands and cock and working into your clenching muscles.</p><p class="p2">“<em>Mir…melleth…” </em>I pray, and you answer my implied question with a forward thrust of your hips and a breathless <em>please</em>. I can finally begin my tantalizing procession, from tongue-tip to fingertips, to the first knuckle of my middle finger, then the next, stretching you almost as quickly as you urge me to, working up to three fingers, gently flexed then curved inside you, beckoning you ever closer while my other hand wraps impatiently around my cock.</p><p class="p2"><em>Please, </em>you beg again, desperately trying not to touch yourself, repositioning your hips as if to prove you can take me, and I believe you, carefully removing my fingers and holding you open in perfect alignment with me. I push in, still slower than either of us really wants, and gasp at the pressure of your body around me, viselike and greedy as you eventually take in my entire length. It doesn’t take you much longer, not when I manage to aim my thrusts into your most sensitive spot, not when I clasp my hand around you, circling my thumb around the head of your cock until your cum spills hot over my fingers. I am unbearably close as well, and hold out long enough to enjoy the image, let alone the sensations, of your orgasm, but the tremors of your body, the quiet way you moan my name along with words you find too coarse to speak, proves too much for me, and I come so hard I can barely make a sound.</p><p class="p2">After a few moments of complete, dream-like stillness, I withdraw and turn my attention to licking the taste of you off of my fingers, making you blush again and swat at me, which leads me to lick the remaining drops off the burn-distorted skin of your abdomen.</p><p class="p2">“Are these the types of cleaning habits one acquires living alone in the wild?” You chide, looking, I’m happy to see, quite smug about the effect you have on me.</p><p class="p2">“It <em>is</em> an acquired taste, <em>as you well know</em>,” I return, “And I don’t intend to waste any of it that I can get. Perhaps on my next campaign, instead of a lock of hair, I should wear around my neck a little vial containing—“</p><p class="p2">“You dirty old man!” You interrupt, laughing and throwing a pillow at me, but behind your mock offense I see mischievous realization,  knowing better than I do that I’m barely joking, and that such wish fulfillment would be a delicious prank to ease the sobriety of our next parting.</p><p class="p2">“I’ll stop, if only because I don’t even want to think about not being near you.” I admit, too tired and content and in love to care about how sentimental I sound.</p><p class="p2">“Good, because I’ve instructed for us to be left alone until at least noon tomorrow,” you say with a grin, nuzzling into me and pulling a light blanket around us. “I knew we would need some time to recover from conducting separate meetings all day today, about the new amendments no less.”</p><p class="p2">“You mean we would need a nice long uninterrupted reunion after our day apart. Perhaps several shorter reunions…I’m rather planning one for tomorrow morning…and of course we will need to recover from those…” I ramble, not needing to open my eyes to know you are rolling yours, but also smiling, and nestling even tighter against me.</p><p class="p2">“I may well need to call an emergency meeting later tonight,” you add, “If you keep talking like this, or if the storm wakes us both up.”</p><p class="p2">“Then I look forward to your summons, my dear prince.” I mumble sleepily, knowing how likely it is that I will wake up to you long before morning, a light rekindled at your side, restlessly scanning some document for an answer to the question that has roused you, and I’ll be torn between leaving you to your pursuit while I observe it, or pulling you back into my chest and quieting your troubled mind with caresses. For now I just hold you close, smoothing my hand over the scattered abrasions on your torso, across the one on your chest that you wear like a badge for my hand in healing it, and working down to the one across your belly, the larger, irregular patch of skin marked by your father’s final act. I know that it still pains you in a way, and I’m grateful for how you’ve grown less ashamed for me to see it in the bright light of morning. I’m already eager to wake up next to you, blankets fallen out of place, our nearly inevitable union that will be calmer, gentler, almost lazy in anticipation of the day ahead. As your breath assumes a regular, quiet pace, I know that I too can finally submit to sleep.</p>
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